In Office Hours

by Lucy Kellaway

  – If you would like to know, Stella said icily, I slogged my guts out when I was your age, and went on slogging when my children were babies. However, I feel no particular need to prove myself to you.

  There was a silence which she did not help him fill. Then he said: You accuse me of not trying, but you haven’t given me anything decent to do. You asked me to check some numbers, and I did. I’m not a statistician, but they seemed OK to me. Or at least they seemed as OK as their assumption, which was that people feel rational about sustainable issues, which clearly they don’t. Have you seen today’s Sun?

  – No. Surprisingly, I don’t read the Sun. I don’t find there’s much in it that helps me with my job. And I don’t really think it’s relevant to this conversation.

  He ignored the unpleasant tone in her voice, took a thumbed copy of the paper out of the folder he was carrying and turned to page three. The topless model had large green breasts. GORGEOUS GREEN GODDESS, it said.

  – For Christ’s sake, said Stella.

  She gave him a distant, regal look that she knew was frightening.

  – What I suggest you do, she said, making her vowels their most open, is that you complete this form. Fill in the objectives. Send it to Russell and ask him for another position. I will be happy to explain to him why your placement with me in Economics is not working out.

  She stood up, which Rhys eventually grasped was his signal to leave.

  Before the presentation, Stella went to the ladies’ loo. She lowered herself on to the seat and closed her eyes, trying to memorize the first few lines of her speech. What had seemed like a great way to start in the previous night now struck her as both fatuous and dangerous.

  In the neighbouring cubicle, someone was talking on the phone.

  – You can’t see her. I’ll go back to court to get another injunction … I’m sorry, you can’t talk to me like that. I’m not listening to this. Fuck off.

  There was a sniff and the sound of the toilet flushing. The door opened and out came Julia’s old secretary, who, on seeing Stella, looked embarrassed but then gave a bright smile.

  Stella, pretending not to have overheard, said hello, and the two stood side by side washing their hands in silence.

  Stella looked at the young woman’s tight black trousers and clinging sweater, and thought she didn’t really look much older than Clementine. She was really very pretty, like a miniature doll with rosy cheeks and dark curls. Despite an anguished expression on her face, she had what Jane Austen called bloom.

  Stella, by contrast, did not have bloom. The sharp overhead light was making the roots show in her hair, and she thought she looked tired and wan. Mostly she didn’t really care, but today was a day when it would have been nice to look good. She smudged some blue on to her eyelids and some gloss on to her lips, wishing her mother had balanced her lectures to her daughter on free will versus determinism with some tips on how to apply make-up.

  At 4 p.m. the board members were sleepy. The room was hot, and discussion of the budget had been long and tedious. The chairman smiled at Stella and got up when she came into the room.

  – I think you all know Stella Bradberry, he said.

  Stella looked around the table at the eighteen-strong board. Six executive directors and twelve non-executives, plus James, who was sitting in. Of the non-execs, all were male except for Dame Judith Babcock, with whom Stella had shared a platform the previous year at the Women of Achievement awards.

  – Good afternoon, she said.

  She could feel a pulse in her throat and that giddy, light-headed feeling, as if she were outside her own body observing. Her voice sounded thin and high.

  – I wanted to start by showing you something that doesn’t normally make its way into the boardroom. This is just a guess, but I’m judging that most of you aren’t devotees of page three of the Sun.

  There was a surprised titter.

  – I thought as much. In fact I’m not myself, but this is rather special.

  Another titter. Stephen, who had run through the presentation with her before she had decided to rework the beginning, was looking alarmed. Stella clicked the mouse of her laptop and a large picture of a naked woman was projected on to the wall, displaying her huge apple green breasts.

  Sir John Englefield, the chairman, gave an amazed guffaw. What am I doing? thought Stella. This is going horribly wrong.

  – There is an economic point here, she ploughed on. You can’t put a value on this. This newspaper is read by seven million people. Green is an issue for them. They aren’t interested in the economics. This is something that they take on trust. If we don’t embrace it wholeheartedly our consumers and all our stakeholders will turn on us.

  They were all listening, ready now for the meat of the presentation, which Stella had rehearsed in the bathroom the previous night, and again that morning. As she talked, she stopped being nervous, and started to perform. For the next twenty minutes she elegantly described the economics of sustainability, concentrating on the economics of fuel made from algae, which she argued was economically viable not just at today’s oil price of $150, but at any above $40. It was a hugely exciting opportunity that could transform the company’s fortunes in as little as five years.

  – That was fascinating, Stella, thank you for your time. Let’s take a nature break and resume in five minutes.

  Stella got up to leave, and the directors nodded their congratulations. As she walked back towards the lift she turned her mobile on and saw a text from her daughter.

  I won!!!! Have been put in for National poetry reading prize!! Luv ya C xxx

  And then one from Charles.

  Where’s your address book??

  She called him and explained where the address book was.

  – I’ve just come from the board meeting.

  – Oh yes, how was it?

  – Triumph.

  – Good, he said absently.

  Stella would have liked more enthusiasm from her husband, but after years of getting little, her expectations were low and so she rarely felt put out by his lack of interest in her work.

  – See you later, she said.

  – We start filming on a council estate near Swansea tomorrow, and so I’m going to go down tonight …

  – You didn’t tell me, she said. When are you back?

  Bella

  Bella was trying to change James’s travel arrangements. The previous day she had booked the flights for his trip to the US only to be told that she would have to alter them because of a family emergency. James returned from the board meeting, walked straight past Bella’s desk and into his office without looking at her.

  – Can you get Stella for me?

  Bella disliked it when her bosses couldn’t pick up the phone themselves, but she said nothing and dialled the number. Stella answered and Bella put the call through to James. Through the open door she could hear his voice, deep and serious.

  – Do you mind if I’m completely straight with you?

  As opposed to what, Bella wondered. Completely crooked?

  – You put me in an impossible situation just then, he went on. If, in the future, you plan to discuss the media impact of any initiatives, it would be really helpful if you gave me a heads up beforehand … I can only repeat … yes, but media is my responsibility … And frankly, I don’t think that green breasts are relevant to this complex issue.

  He slammed the phone down and emerged from his office.

  – I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to change those flights, he said.

  – Yes, she said. I have. It’s all fine – if you fly out from Stansted, you can still make all your meetings and get back by Thursday night.

  – Oh, he said. Good. Thank you.

  For the first time since Bella had been working for him, he looked at her properly and smiled. He had nice teeth, she noticed.

  Going down in the lift Bella bumped into Rhys. He was looking glum, she thought, and minus the cocky manner he seemed
really rather attractive. His red hair was tousled. He had a sort of naughty schoolboy look that appealed to her. And his eyes were an extraordinarily light blue.

  – Hi. How’s it working out in Economics?

  He shrugged and gave a sarky smile.

  – I probably won’t be working there for much longer. Stella Bradberry seems not to appreciate my talents.

  And then Bella said: Well, she’s not exactly flavour of the month with my boss either. He’s just had a massive strop with her over the phone – something to do with green tits.

  Bella knew she should not have said this. One of the things that had made each one of her different bosses value her was that she kept her mouth shut. She could have done Julia a great deal of harm had she chosen to talk. But today she was feeling awful, and she was vaguely attracted to this guy, and so she didn’t see why she shouldn’t engage in some mutual moaning.

  – What?

  His pale eyes widened.

  – Green tits?

  Bella found this comic. Mention breasts to men, she thought, even ones who have first class degrees from Oxford, and you have their full attention. He did fancy her, clearly.

  – How about a drink? he asked.

  – When?

  – Like, now?

  – I can’t, she said with regret. I have to get home.

  She didn’t want to mention Millie, not at this stage.

  – What about tomorrow?

  Stella

  Stella had an 8 a.m. breakfast on the fourteenth floor with three economists from an energy think tank who were trying to get AE to sponsor a research project. She liked this role and was good at listening and at asking the right questions, but that day her mind wasn’t quite on it.

  Stella’s BlackBerry was winking its red light at her. Surreptitiously she touched the mouse ball and glanced at the new message. It was from Rhys Williams.

  i gather green tits proved useful

  Whether it was the word ‘tits’ or whether it was his discovery that she had stolen his idea, the message made her blush. How had he found out what had happened in the board meeting, she wondered. He couldn’t have spoken to Stephen or to James. And what should she do now? To have banished him for being a lazy idiot, but then to lift his idea without giving him any credit and to be found out – it didn’t look good. Bad, in fact.

  Stella tried to compose her face as if she were taking in every word of the economists’ presentation. The red light blinked again. Nathalie.

  Hi. Mrs Czarnikow – Oscar’s mother? – wants you to call re Finn. Not urgent. N

  Then why, she thought, ring me at work with it? There was something about all the other mothers at Finn’s school, with their perfect blonde highlights and the way that they did their children’s projects for them, that was aggravating. Last time Stella had tried to help with a project on the economy of Canada, she had flown into such a rage over Finn’s messy handwriting and mislabelled pie charts that she had seized the sheets and ripped them in two. Finn had stomped off; Stella had ended up doing the whole thing herself and had been somewhat put out when the teacher had queried her account of the trade figures and not given her a commendation.

  Stella dragged her attention back to the economists and asked a pertinent question about the difficulty of data collection.

  Bella

  Today, Bella said to herself as she got on to her bike to go to work, I am going to be positive. Cycling saved £1.50 on the bus, and pedalling made her happy. Even weaving through the heavy lorries and buses on Holloway Road and Upper Street was oddly enjoyable: she arrived in the office feeling victorious.

  Bella didn’t cycle every day because sometimes she heeded her mother’s warning: that Millie needed her alive. This was true; yet the way her mother said it was unpleasantly pointed, rubbing in the fact that Millie had only one functioning parent, and that no one apart from Millie would mind much if Bella were flattened by a cement mixer. Bella was well aware of both facts, yet on mornings like this, she didn’t mind. She had been greatly cheered up by her meeting in the lift with Rhys the previous night, and on the phone to her sister she had admitted that she had given up looking for the right man, instead she was simply trying to avoid another disastrously wrong man. She had a list of six criteria and they went like this:

  No drug addicts

  No alcoholics

  No depressives

  No bi-polar

  No unemployed

  No employees of Atlantic Energy

  Rhys appeared to meet all of these criteria except for the last. Go for it, her sister had advised her. She didn’t say it with much conviction, but that was only because she was longing to get the subject back to herself.

  The phone was ringing as she reached her desk. It was Anthea.

  – Hello. Have you just got in? I tried a few minutes ago, but there was no answer.

  Bella looked at the clock, which said 9.03.

  – Oh? I’ve been here for a bit, she lied.

  – Can you please tell himself that the headache I had yesterday has developed into a migraine so I’m in bed feeling poorly.

  The only time Bella had had a migraine she’d spent the day, not making cheerful phone calls, but being sick into a bowl in a darkened room.

  – Oh dear, she said. Poor you.

  James’s door was open, and he was hunched over his computer. This time he looked up at the sound of Bella’s voice.

  – Anthea called in to say she’s got a migraine, she said.

  – Ah. She suffers a lot.

  He caught her eye as if there was a shared joke between them. Bella felt herself blushing.

  – Thanks for rearranging the tickets yesterday, he said.

  – It’s nothing.

  – And can you call the Times journalist I’m having lunch with today and say I’d like to meet at 12.30 instead of 1?

  – He won’t like that, Bella said. I’ve dealt with him before. He’s a really difficult one.

  James banged his hand down on the desk.

  – I don’t give a shit who he is or what he’s like. My time is much more precious than his.

  What was the matter with him, Bella wondered as she picked up the phone to make the call. One moment he was in his own world. The next moment he was giving her complicit glances, and the next, shouting. Bella hoped he wasn’t going to do much more of that. She hated being shouted at.

  Just as she was thinking this, he came out of his room and stood by her desk.

  – Sorry. I shouldn’t have raised my voice. I wasn’t cross with you. Things are a little … trying … at the moment. I simply need an earlier lunch today as I’m taking my wife to a hospital appointment.

  He looked awkward.

  – Don’t worry, said Bella.

  It was a funny thing, she thought, that when someone gets angry but then says sorry nicely, you can end up liking them more than if they hadn’t lost it in the first place. She wondered whether she should say she hoped there was nothing serious wrong with his wife, but then thought, no, best not. James was still hovering around her desk looking distracted so she asked: Is there anything you’d like me to do?

  And he said that for his press trip next week he would like her to prepare a short briefing note on the journalists who were attending. Bella liked doing this sort of thing as it made her use her brain and allowed her to exercise her natural curiosity about people.

  For each one she found a brief CV, and attached their last few articles in which AE had been mentioned. On some of them she wrote a few notes of her own. Who had an axe to grind, who was a troublemaker, who was solid and so on. About the Times journalist she wrote: Quite flakey. Julia had a run-in with him over his coverage of our last results announcement. But then she decided to leave Julia out of it. James hadn’t mentioned her name once – though now she came to think of it, he hadn’t mentioned anyone’s name. So maybe he didn’t do names. Or conversation of any sort, come to that.

  Bella turned to her email, and the
re was a message from Rhys. The subject line said: lunch today? She opened the message up but the rest of it was blank – which didn’t strike her as being sufficiently enthusiastic. Still, she messaged back:

  Yes. See you in lobby at 1?

  She printed out her briefing notes and took them to James, but he had already gone out to lunch.

  Stella

  What was she going to do about Rhys, Stella wondered. Email would be best, she thought, as he had emailed her, and so she would respond in kind. She sent:

  Rhys – I meant to contact you last night after the board meeting to thank you for a useful input to the presentation. It lightened up some otherwise rather difficult material.

  Stella

  It was a bit stiff, but then she meant to be stiff. Within a minute he had emailed back:

  Does this mean that I get to stay in your department?

  Stella sighed and did what she did with tiresome messages: she ignored them and hoped they’d go away.

  Her phone rang.

  – Stella Bradberry, she said in her briskest and most professional voice.

  – Hi, Stella, it’s Nancy Stephenson.

  Nancy was a pushy American mother of a boy in Finn’s class who her son tolerated rather than liked.

  – I really hope you don’t mind me butting in at work. I know you must be really busy. I don’t know how you manage it. I saw an article about you in the Sunday Times about senior women in business – I was so impressed.

  – Thank you, said Stella. Those pieces are stupid, they don’t mean anything.

  – Oh, but they do! – Look, why I’m calling – and I don’t know if your assistant mentioned this, but I also called yesterday? It’s about Finn. When he was having a playdate here on Monday I got the guys to do some work on their French for the test today –

  What French test, thought Stella.

  – and I couldn’t help noticing that Finn had his face really close to the page, which I thought might explain why his reading and writing are …?

  Are what? thought Stella. Useless by comparison to your son’s?

  – So I just thought – and I hope you don’t mind me calling, but I just thought that if someone noticed something that was wrong with Oscar, well, I’d really appreciate them getting in touch right away. I guess what I’m leading up to here is that I just wondered if you might think of getting his eyes tested?